DOI Heft:
October 26, 1889
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0201
196
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [October 26, 1889.
A DEVONIAN PERIOD.
“ Is this the hend ? ”—Miss Squeers.
Of the local G-uide-books Twiss's, which I have already mentioned,
is by far the best, but the ordinary maps of North Devon are
decidedly unsatisfactory for
the pedestrian or equestrian.
The bicyclists’ map, which
is generally useful for a
rider, is of very little service
here, as it is not a know-
ledge of high roads hut of
the lanes, short cuts and
bye - ways, that gives the
horseman the advantage
over the traveller in a car-
riage, and the space he can
cover without fatigue gives
him his advantage over the
pedestrian. But the bicyclist
map does not assist youhere;
indeed, the ordinary map
which accompanies Twiss's
Guide is the best I’ve seen
up to now.
As to Murray, it is very
full, “but,” says Our Own
Mr. Cook, “a guide-book
that does not include George-
Down to Lvnmeuth. ham in its index of contents,
—and I cannot find it in its pages,—is certainly incomplete.”
The guide-books give the distances accurately, but rarely do they
give you more than one route to any place, and still more rarely do
they inform you of public foot-paths across fields. Murray’s young
men should be sent out again, some on bicycles, and some walking,
and some riding, and let the result be a good, clear, well-defined map
of North Devon, with short cuts distinctly marked, and let the in-
structions tell us whether a town or village is supposed to be at the
end, in the middle or at the beginning of its name on the map, as
an eighth of an inch on the map makes about four miles difference on
the road.
Essential for North Devon—-A good waterproof. Not one of
your showy, flimsy, so-convenient, roll-up-to-nothing-and-weigh-
less-than-that, which will tear and split like rotten rag, and costs
from three to five guineas, but an ample, long, stout waterproof,
made to brave the Scotch mists that have gone astray in North
Devon, the torrents, the showers, the after-dripping from the trees,
and that won’t tear on its catching in any obstacle when mounting
a coach or embarking in a boat.
Time’s up ! Our Own Mr. and Mrs. Cook and all the little Cookies
must depart for town. Copley Markham has left us for Paris.
Young Sicrymmager is climbing the Welsh Mountains. The Poet
has gone to stay with his publisher. Miss Brondesly has been sent
for, and she parts from Anne Trudger with “cheers, tears, and
laughter.” One more breaking-up. Sad thing, all breaking-up
gradually. The Ilfracombe holiday is at an end.
Shall Wilkie Collins have a Memorial ?—Certainly: other-
wise he may be forgotten, as he left No Name worth mentioning.
A GRIEVANCE AT THE GROSVENOR.
My Dear Mr. Punch,
I should like to know what the world is coming to. The
Art-world _ is undoubtedly tottering to its fall, and will shortly
cease to exist. You have doubtless heard of the disastrous catastrophe
that took place last week, which came upon us like a thunder-clap,
and which has undoubtedly sealed the fate of the Grosvenor Gallery,
and has removed for ever Sir Coutts- Lindsay from the exalted
pedestal on which We had placed him. At the very last moment I was
informed that there would be no Private View at the Grosvenor
Gallery ! It is too bad ! This is the reward for years of faithfulness.
I who—by reason of my extraordinary costumes, by my weird expres-
sion, by my high voice, and by my striking attitudes—along with
my band of devoted disciples—who have been the making of
Sir Coutts—to find that we were disestablished at one rough blow,
and to hear that we could come in with the Common Shilling Public.
That, my dear Sir, is what I absolutely refuse to do ! What do I care
for Pastels ? What do I care for Sir Joshua Reynolds, or Gains-
borough, or Sir John Millais, or Vandyke, or Old Masters, or Young
Masters, or Middle-aged Masters? What does anybody care for them ?
The obj ect of the Grosvenor Gallery, Sir, is Art. And the real meaning
of Art is a crowded Private View, in a hot room, and the feeling that you
are a celebrity ! Oh, the glow of glory that comes over me when I
hear people audibly whisper, “ There goes Mrs. Shad-Thames ! ”
Oh, the delight, when one knows that the name of Mrs. Shad-
Thames will be chronicled amid
the host of distinguished people
who were “ observed.” Oh, the
rapture when one feels a dozen
Lady - journalists are minutely
taking down every detail of one's
costume! Again, I ask, is the
Profession of Private-Viewer—a
profession, which, by the way,
requires neither taste, beauty nor
intellect, but something beyond
all; a Private- Viewer, like a poet,
is born not made—to be ruthlessly
crushed by some silly fad of the
Head of the Grosvenor ? If Sir
Coutts thinks he can compensate
Society for his unceremonious
treatment of Us, by inviting a
few of his private friends to take
tea in the Gallery on Sunday—
all I can say, is, Sir Coutts is
most egregiously mistaken. And
when the time comes, as it surely
will come, when he sits alone in
his Gallery tvhile the public no
longer pay their shillings, and he
will have the satisfaction of
enjoying the very privatest of
Private Views, I trust his con-
science will smite him for his
scandalous treatment of We, who,
have made him ! When I look
at my terra-cotta gown, my slashed
canary sack, my artistically bulged
fluffy hat, especially prepared
for last week, when I think I shall no longer be chronicled as a cele-
brity three or four times a year, and that my occupation is gone
for ever, I declare I could cry with vexation ! Believe me, to be,
Yours wrathfully, Sophonisba Shad-Thames.
QUITE THE STILTON!
Suggestion for the Lord Mayor Elect
should the Ninth of November be
a particularly dirty day.
For Loder or Peel (“ whichever you like, my little dear”)
on Friday next
“ And all his prospects Brightening to the last.”
Quoted from “ Resignation.”
Great bargain.—second-hand gold stick to be
DISPOSED OF.—Owing to recent changes at Court involving
the suppression of the functionary who has _ hitherto made use of
the above-named useful and ornamental article, he is now willing
to part with it at a merely nominal value. It would cut up into a
couple of elegant walking-sticks or umbrella handles, or, sub-
divided into three, would furnish a handsome and showy set _ of
presentation cricket stumps. Would also chop up into an effective
set of drawing-room ninepins. Might still be used with effect at a
cannibal court ceremony, and if any enterprising Missionary wished
to purchase it with a view to utilising it in this fashion, the
Advertiser, who is a thorough Master in the Art of carrying it with
becoming effect, will be happy for the purchase [money, to throw in
as well, a few lessons in “ Official Deportment! ”
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [October 26, 1889.
A DEVONIAN PERIOD.
“ Is this the hend ? ”—Miss Squeers.
Of the local G-uide-books Twiss's, which I have already mentioned,
is by far the best, but the ordinary maps of North Devon are
decidedly unsatisfactory for
the pedestrian or equestrian.
The bicyclists’ map, which
is generally useful for a
rider, is of very little service
here, as it is not a know-
ledge of high roads hut of
the lanes, short cuts and
bye - ways, that gives the
horseman the advantage
over the traveller in a car-
riage, and the space he can
cover without fatigue gives
him his advantage over the
pedestrian. But the bicyclist
map does not assist youhere;
indeed, the ordinary map
which accompanies Twiss's
Guide is the best I’ve seen
up to now.
As to Murray, it is very
full, “but,” says Our Own
Mr. Cook, “a guide-book
that does not include George-
Down to Lvnmeuth. ham in its index of contents,
—and I cannot find it in its pages,—is certainly incomplete.”
The guide-books give the distances accurately, but rarely do they
give you more than one route to any place, and still more rarely do
they inform you of public foot-paths across fields. Murray’s young
men should be sent out again, some on bicycles, and some walking,
and some riding, and let the result be a good, clear, well-defined map
of North Devon, with short cuts distinctly marked, and let the in-
structions tell us whether a town or village is supposed to be at the
end, in the middle or at the beginning of its name on the map, as
an eighth of an inch on the map makes about four miles difference on
the road.
Essential for North Devon—-A good waterproof. Not one of
your showy, flimsy, so-convenient, roll-up-to-nothing-and-weigh-
less-than-that, which will tear and split like rotten rag, and costs
from three to five guineas, but an ample, long, stout waterproof,
made to brave the Scotch mists that have gone astray in North
Devon, the torrents, the showers, the after-dripping from the trees,
and that won’t tear on its catching in any obstacle when mounting
a coach or embarking in a boat.
Time’s up ! Our Own Mr. and Mrs. Cook and all the little Cookies
must depart for town. Copley Markham has left us for Paris.
Young Sicrymmager is climbing the Welsh Mountains. The Poet
has gone to stay with his publisher. Miss Brondesly has been sent
for, and she parts from Anne Trudger with “cheers, tears, and
laughter.” One more breaking-up. Sad thing, all breaking-up
gradually. The Ilfracombe holiday is at an end.
Shall Wilkie Collins have a Memorial ?—Certainly: other-
wise he may be forgotten, as he left No Name worth mentioning.
A GRIEVANCE AT THE GROSVENOR.
My Dear Mr. Punch,
I should like to know what the world is coming to. The
Art-world _ is undoubtedly tottering to its fall, and will shortly
cease to exist. You have doubtless heard of the disastrous catastrophe
that took place last week, which came upon us like a thunder-clap,
and which has undoubtedly sealed the fate of the Grosvenor Gallery,
and has removed for ever Sir Coutts- Lindsay from the exalted
pedestal on which We had placed him. At the very last moment I was
informed that there would be no Private View at the Grosvenor
Gallery ! It is too bad ! This is the reward for years of faithfulness.
I who—by reason of my extraordinary costumes, by my weird expres-
sion, by my high voice, and by my striking attitudes—along with
my band of devoted disciples—who have been the making of
Sir Coutts—to find that we were disestablished at one rough blow,
and to hear that we could come in with the Common Shilling Public.
That, my dear Sir, is what I absolutely refuse to do ! What do I care
for Pastels ? What do I care for Sir Joshua Reynolds, or Gains-
borough, or Sir John Millais, or Vandyke, or Old Masters, or Young
Masters, or Middle-aged Masters? What does anybody care for them ?
The obj ect of the Grosvenor Gallery, Sir, is Art. And the real meaning
of Art is a crowded Private View, in a hot room, and the feeling that you
are a celebrity ! Oh, the glow of glory that comes over me when I
hear people audibly whisper, “ There goes Mrs. Shad-Thames ! ”
Oh, the delight, when one knows that the name of Mrs. Shad-
Thames will be chronicled amid
the host of distinguished people
who were “ observed.” Oh, the
rapture when one feels a dozen
Lady - journalists are minutely
taking down every detail of one's
costume! Again, I ask, is the
Profession of Private-Viewer—a
profession, which, by the way,
requires neither taste, beauty nor
intellect, but something beyond
all; a Private- Viewer, like a poet,
is born not made—to be ruthlessly
crushed by some silly fad of the
Head of the Grosvenor ? If Sir
Coutts thinks he can compensate
Society for his unceremonious
treatment of Us, by inviting a
few of his private friends to take
tea in the Gallery on Sunday—
all I can say, is, Sir Coutts is
most egregiously mistaken. And
when the time comes, as it surely
will come, when he sits alone in
his Gallery tvhile the public no
longer pay their shillings, and he
will have the satisfaction of
enjoying the very privatest of
Private Views, I trust his con-
science will smite him for his
scandalous treatment of We, who,
have made him ! When I look
at my terra-cotta gown, my slashed
canary sack, my artistically bulged
fluffy hat, especially prepared
for last week, when I think I shall no longer be chronicled as a cele-
brity three or four times a year, and that my occupation is gone
for ever, I declare I could cry with vexation ! Believe me, to be,
Yours wrathfully, Sophonisba Shad-Thames.
QUITE THE STILTON!
Suggestion for the Lord Mayor Elect
should the Ninth of November be
a particularly dirty day.
For Loder or Peel (“ whichever you like, my little dear”)
on Friday next
“ And all his prospects Brightening to the last.”
Quoted from “ Resignation.”
Great bargain.—second-hand gold stick to be
DISPOSED OF.—Owing to recent changes at Court involving
the suppression of the functionary who has _ hitherto made use of
the above-named useful and ornamental article, he is now willing
to part with it at a merely nominal value. It would cut up into a
couple of elegant walking-sticks or umbrella handles, or, sub-
divided into three, would furnish a handsome and showy set _ of
presentation cricket stumps. Would also chop up into an effective
set of drawing-room ninepins. Might still be used with effect at a
cannibal court ceremony, and if any enterprising Missionary wished
to purchase it with a view to utilising it in this fashion, the
Advertiser, who is a thorough Master in the Art of carrying it with
becoming effect, will be happy for the purchase [money, to throw in
as well, a few lessons in “ Official Deportment! ”